As they walked along, she checked her phone again. Texts from her mother, Boling. Maggie, silly and happy—because, of course, she’d been pardoned from the cruel and unusual punishment of singing in her class’s talent show.

Nothing from O’Neil.

Did she expect an apology? The hard words had been motivated by his concern for her but she’d found them patronizing. That was difficult for her to get past.

She supposed the frisson between them would dissipate, like smoke from a brief fire. This happened from time to time, head butting. Still, they had had such a complicated history, personal and professional, that she never knew if the flare would spread like a wind-fueled brushfire racing over the dry, bristly coat of the landscape in this state. Destructive, even fatal. She never prepared for a final rift with Michael O’Neil because, well, it was unimaginable.

A glance at her phone once more. Nothing.

Let it go…

They arrived at Overby’s office and the CBI head waved them inside. “Just found something interesting. Got a call from Oakland PD. The arson?”

Dance nodded and explained to TJ about the Operation Pipeline warehouse that some crew burned down.

“But—it wasn’t a gang that did it.”

Dance cocked her head.

Her boss continued, “Mercenaries.”

TJ said, “Working for a crew, then. Didn’t want to get their dainty little fingers dirty.”

“No. Not working for a crew. They got out of the country but left some tracks behind. Guess where they were based? Baja.”

“But not working for one of the Mexican cartels?”

“No. Working for someone else.”

Dance understood. “Well, well: Santos hired them. He was behind it.”

“Bingo,” Overby said.

Chihuahua police commissioner Ramon Santos, who’d called the other day to excoriate the U.S. contingent of Operation Pipeline for not doing enough to stanch the flow of guns into his country.

“He took matters into his own hands.”

“Oakland DEA contacted some of their people in Mexico and confirmed it.”

Dance grimaced. “Thought he was taking down a source for the guns? Well, he shot himself in the foot. That warehouse was a great source for intel. Does he know he’s set us back a month with his little fireworks display?”

“He will,” Overby said, “after I call him this afternoon.”

Whatever else about his personal style, Overby combined righteousness and indignation very, very well.

“So Santos,” TJ said, “has got an interesting approach to enforcing the law. He breaks it.”

Then a sound behind her, paper ruffling, footsteps. Michael O’Neil came into the office.

“Ah, Michael.”

“Charles.”

She looked his way. He nodded to everyone. “’Morning.”

Overby said, “Okay, the Solitude Creek unsub. Where are we?”

O’Neil glanced toward Dance. She said, “Well, all we have are dead ends with the unsub’s Honda. But Jon Boling’s hacking into the unsub’s phone now. It might be the burner he used to call Sam Cohen or the one at the Bay View Center, where he called nine-one-one, the media and the restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf after the Bay View incident. Or maybe another one. Jon’s also cracking Stan Prescott’s computer—the man killed in Orange County. We hope it gives us some clue why the unsub went to all that trouble to murder him. And, TJ? Update on Anderson Construction?”